


Slice of a Happy Life

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [11]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Ficlet Collection, Gore, Mentions of Rape, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Other, Pseudo-Incest, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Self-Harm, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: You're doing great.





	1. Knife

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to leave Happy alone. This story is a collection of messy ficlets snapshotting different moments of Happy's life after the events in his eponymously named story. I'm going to try to keep each ficlet around 1k words to keep things reasonable for me. I'm open to requests.

Sometimes you think back to the way you had been when Bendy and the Joxter first started caring for you. What a bizarre, incomprehensible creature you were then. You remember it only foggily, distantly, like remembering a character in a book you can’t much relate to. Back then you were so needlessly unmanageable and difficult. You’d hate to be such a bother now.

But an odd thought hits you, a memory you hadn’t cared to recall. There’s a knife buried by a thick-trunked tree in the clearing, the very tree where they once kept you tied, because you used to be bad and need it.

When the Joxter and Bendy are off gathering food, and leave you to ‘hold down the fort,’ you remember that knife, and you wonder if it’s still there. You don’t really make any conscious choice, but soon enough you’re digging in that spot on which you once were tied.

You don’t remember exactly where you buried it. Your fingers get scratched up something awful. You’re starting to think the knife isn’t there after all, when you finally see a glint of dulled silver, and then you unbury the old blade.

There it is. Not really yours, but another Snufkin’s. Some strange Snufkin who has been dead for quite a while. You had a knife, too, but you don’t remember what happened to it.

This one is a bit rusty, now, orange grit beginning to creep up its dented and scarred surface. But the sharp edge is mostly clean and silver. It hits the light just right if you tilt it a certain way. You do this several times, flash the light and then quiet it, glare and then dark, and the sound of your own laughing hits your ears.

The Joxter has a knife on him. He’s had to use it on you a few times, when you've been bad, or when he’s just been in the mood for it.

Bendy doesn’t have any knives, but he doesn’t really need to because he’s a weapon all on his own.

But you – you haven’t had anything of the sort in a while. You’re not sure how long exactly because time is a real fickle thing. You’re sitting there thinking about all the ways time does things it shouldn’t, like speed up and slow down and sometimes stop or skip, and just as you’re thinking it, you jump in surprise and your arm stings.

Another skip, it seems. There’s a little slice on your skin, strawberry red peeking up beneath parted flesh. How absolutely bizarre. You hadn’t meant to do that at all. You stare as tiny beads bubble to the surface. It’s a tiny cut. Shallow. It doesn’t hurt as much as you would have thought, but you suppose one little knife is hardly anything to worry about. The Joxter and Bendy have done much worse to you on accident.

Soon enough the blade touches your skin again (oh, you hadn’t meant to do that either), and there’s a new wound bisecting the first. A laugh bursts from your chest. That seems right. That’s just so. They’re the first injuries you’ve made to yourself, rather than someone else making them for you. How special. How fond.

And then you falter, because you shouldn’t really be enjoying anything at all on your own. You really ought to wait until either Bendy or the Joxter comes back, because this is – you don’t think you’re supposed to be doing this. What if they’re unhappy? What if they hurt you? They can do much worse than these frail little cuts, they can really make you suffer and you'd deserve it for – for –

Well, you’re not sure what for, but you would deserve it, you know that.

The knife dangles from your limp fingers. Oh, you've really messed up-

“Watcha doin’?”

You jerk your head up and Bendy’s standing in front of you. He’s looking at your arm.

“I’m sorry,” you say reflexively. He doesn’t look upset. Sometimes it’s hard to tell though because he smiles when he’s upset, too. Kind of like you. That’s sorta funny. He seems expectant.

“I don’t know,” you finally admit, quite honestly, and stare down at the blood welling on your forearm. “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you’re cuttin’ yourself,” he says.

You guess you are. “I didn’t mean to-“ you repeat, panic clutching you without you knowing exactly why.

“Lemme help.” And then he settles between your legs and grabs the knife and your forearm. His grip is gentle but firm. The hair rises on your arm, but you feel warm; a soft giggle interrupts the silence.

“Don’t worry,” Bendy says importantly. “I know how to do this.”

You trust him. He and the Joxter know best. You’re only a stupid Snufkin. Then he’s digging the knife into your arm, and wow, that hurts. You stare in amazement because he sure did cut in deeper than you had, and that doesn’t look good, not one bit. He does it again before you can really process that it happened the first time. It awes you to see two very deep parallel lines, both bubbling up thick red blood and – oh, he just made a third line.

Somewhere deep in your brain an instinct kicks to life, one that rings loud alarms and says you need to stop, now –

There’s a fourth line. Bendy’s breathing kinda hard which – that’s sorta funny isn’t it, because you don’t think he has to breathe at all, but he does seem to get excited- a fifth line.

You make a squeaking noise that might have been an attempt as a protest. It’s a really silly attempt, though. Then his fingers are swimming in the blood, pressing into the cuts, and his grip on your arm is tight. He _really_ likes this. You’re doing good. You’re making him happy. That’s what you’re supposed to do, make him and the Joxter happy.

“Is this good?” you ask, just to be sure.

“Uhhuh.” The blood is making weird, unnatural patterns on his gloves. Not the sort of patterns it would make if the gloves were actually made of fabric. His grip on your wrist is starting to hurt. Really hurt.

“Bendy,” you squeak.

“Sammy,” he murmurs, which is odd, because you don’t think they’ve ever called you that before. Then he laughs like it’s some personal joke, and you laugh too. Whatever it was, it was probably funny.

Then your arm burns like it’s got acid in it, because his serpentine tongue has started lapping into the wounds. You let out a weak noise, some half whimper. That’s good of you. Except you’re starting to wonder when he’s gonna stop. You’re feeling a little woozy, is all, and those bells in your head are clanging like crazy. But you have to be wrong. He said he knew what he was doing. You're a Snufkin, so you don’t know anything.

The world spins. That happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about.

There’s a shout, and you blink, gaze failing to focus quite right. Frantic gold eyes.

You smile wide, dizzy. “Hi papa.” How great to see him. 


	2. Solitude

One day, the Joxter and Bendy leave for a Snufkin hunt. They don't want you coming along. That’s what they said. Hunting alone together, like old times. And you’re to stay in the nest.

The Joxter sets out dry strips of jerky and some cooked roots, and reminds you that the berry bushes are just five minutes away. Bendy arranges several filled canteens around you and reminds you that Snufkins need water to live.

“It’ll just be a few days,” the Joxter says. “You’ll look after the nest, won’t you? It’s a very important job, dear, one I’d only trust to you.”

You want to do good. So when they leave, you perch importantly at the entrance of the clearing, and you watch. You’ll look after the nest. You’ll defend it and protect it. That’s all they ask from you: surely you can do that? But then you wonder - what does one need to protect the nest against? What sort of threats should you anticipate? It seems important to know that so you know how to ready yourself.

You’re about to ask Bendy just that, but then you remember he’s not here. And that, abruptly, frightens you, because if he’s not here guarding the nest, anything could happen. You certainly can’t do what he does. You can’t do anything at all, actually, except look pretty and get fucked; that’s why you’re here, that’s why you _exist_. You can’t defend the nest from anything – no, no, you need comfort. You’re already turning to the canoe, thinking about the Joxter wrapping his arms around you and soothing you, when you remember that the Joxter isn’t here, either.

The thought arrests you in place. You’re _alone_. What are you supposed to do on your own? How are you supposed to behave? When do you eat? When do you get water? Are you allowed to sleep in the canoe? Are you allowed to sleep at all? If so, when are you supposed to sleep? How long? What if you sleep too long? Too short? What if-

You try to get yourself under control. The Joxter said you need to look after the nest. You – you need to do that, of course. You totter your way around the clearing. First you fluff the bedding in the canoe, and toss out a few bits that were stained with ink. That’s something you've seen the Joxter do, so it’s something you know must be right. Then you scrub the cooking pot. It was already clean, of course, but maybe it needed to be cleaner. You brush flower petals off the sitting stumps by the fire bed, and then you put the flower petals back onto the stumps because maybe they liked them that way. But maybe they don’t like them that way. They’re not here to tell you which to do, so you don’t have any idea what the right thing is.

This hang-up paralyzes you for quite a bit. You breathe too hard, and start feeling numb and distant from the world. It’s very frustrating, but you have to mentally hole up and wait until your body is done. When it is, you come to laying on the ground, and new terror seizes you.

 _You haven't been looking after the nest_. Laying pointlessly on the ground absolutely can’t be what the Joxter intended when he gave you those instructions. You need to do _something_. 

Flowers, you think. They seem to like it when you decorate with flowers. You’re already rushing out of the clearing to fetch flowers when you realize – how stupid of you – that you can’t leave the nest. Leaving the nest means _not_ looking after it. They did say you could get berries, of course, but… Well, that was for eating. Flowers weren’t as important. You really shouldn’t leave.

Yes, it’s best you stay. So you sit cross-legged in the center of the clearing and do your best to remain alert. The sky darkens. Crickets swell. Your back hurts and your butt’s numb. The clearing blackens until you can’t see a foot in front of your face.

The night is chilly, and you find you’re lonely, and scared. Anything in the shadows could leap out at you. You hope if something leaps out, it’s Bendy. You close your eyes, imagine that the darkness is him, and that you’re not alone – that you’re safe, and constricted tight in inky blackness.

That’s how you manage to sleep. The next morning finds you staring at a strip of jerky in your hand, stomach growling. They said you could eat. But they didn’t say when. Bendy normally hand feeds you. That’s how you know when to eat, because it’s whenever he feels like feeding you, or whenever the Joxter reminds him that you haven’t eaten in days and Snufkins need food. Oh! That’s a good guide. A few days.

You set aside the jerky. You can wait until a time that the Joxter would normally say something, since Bendy isn’t here to feed you earlier than that. So you go the day, and another night, and another day without eating. You panic a few times, because suddenly you have to make choices like should you drink water or should you fluff the canoe's bedding again? (Fluff, always fluff, that's more important - but what if you fluff it _too_ much, what if the Joxter is upset with you?). 

Another night passes, and another day dawns. You're contemplating the jerky piece again when a horrible, horrible thought roots in your mind like a parasite. _What if they don’t come back._

They might do that, just to be funny, and it would be funny, of course it’d be funny, but then _what do you do_. It’s so frightening that you forget to breathe again (you can’t do anything right) and your face and fingers go tingly and numb. It takes a few minutes, but then you throw up. And that’s – well, it’s weird, laughing and then seizing with clear liquid dribbling from your lips. You’re a mess. You're loose, insecure, not attached to anything without their touch to root you. Without their words to ground you. Without their guidance. In tears, you skate your fingers along your skin again and again and again, as if they're there, as if they're always there-

A familiar voice interrupts, “Whatcha doin'?”

“Four days alone and he goes insane,” tsks the Joxter.

“Wow, you’re really hopeless, aren’t ya?” Bendy laughs.

"Snufkins," sighs the Joxter. "What silly, dumb creatures they are."

They’re back. They’re back. You nearly cry in relief. They’re finally back, and you’re safe.


	3. Art

Bendy likes drawing. That’s why the Joxter raided the Moomin house and stole a collection of pens, paintbrushes, paper, and canvas. But Bendy isn’t using the supplies for art. At least, not the sort of art that the Joxter probably had in mind. But it isn't your place to judge or refuse.

You’re holding your overcoat up to your chin with your thighs splayed wide apart to be a good boy like you were told. Bendy’s sitting between your legs, a few paint brushes in his hand, a pen dangling from his teeth, and a pile of art supplies sitting on a cloth by his side. There’s two pens inside you already, their caps sticking out bizarrely.

“How’s that?” Bendy asks, taking the pen out of his mouth and surveying you with clinical interest.

“Hurts,” you answer quite honestly.

“That’s just two! But boy, you sure do look tight around them. Hang on, hold still-“ With one of the paintbrushes he's holding, he pokes you hard enough between the legs that you yelp.

“That’s not in, that’s not in,” you squeak.

“I can see that for myself, duh. I’m trying to get it in.” Frowning, he nuzzles the handle of the paintbrush where the other objects meet your body. “Is that all you can fit?” he wonders aloud, and then gets just the right pressure and angle – the paintbrush slides right in, much further than the pens. You cry out.

“Ooh, I think I hit something that time,” Bendy says excitedly. He definitely did. The pain blooms out from inside your belly. Tears spring to your eyes. This is all right. It’s what he wants. “I can’t believe how much of that fits in you!” he grabs all three tools and wiggles them, cackling. “They just disappear right into ya, don’t they?”

“Uhhuh,” you whimper.

“Organic bodies are weird. Oh, wait, this brush is really thick-“

“G-gentle!” He's going to stab  _through_ something if he keeps pushing them in so sharply.

“Okay, it’s _hard_ to be gentle, and also, I didn’t ask your opinion. They don’t go in without a bit of for- oh, haha.” You nearly bend double as the thick paintbrush breaches you and stabs your insides like the last one. You’re panting.

“I-I think you can – you can ease them in,” you moan in pain. “Work them between the others.”

“Huh.” He takes the pen that was in his mouth (it’s now slick with black saliva), and jams it amongst the others sticking out of you.

“B-between the others,” you gasp. “It’ll be easier-“

“All right all right.” He holds the other supplies steady inside you and struggles to work the pen in. “You’re so tight, Happy. Ya think you’d loosen up over time.”

You do your best to relax. Relaxing will make this easier. It’s hard to consciously control that, but if you can just let your legs splay a little further apart, try to welcome in the tools– you are tense, your muscles are clenched, and that’s not helping. You’re just making things harder for yourself, as always.

You don’t think you managed to relax much at all, but Bendy gets the pen in nonetheless.

“Five,” he says happily.

Oh, gosh, you can feel them inside you. Every time you shift even a little. They jostle and jab, and it’s an awful feeling. Painful in a way wholly different than sex.

“And I thought you’d only be able to fit a couple,” laughs Bendy. “Snufkins sure are talented.”

Your stomach rises and falls nervously. You know better than to hope that he’s finished. Sure enough, he pulls another paintbrush from the pile. “This is wild. Every time it looks like you can’t take a single more, but then you do!” He proves that point by worming the next paintbrush inside you, hugged tight by your pink cunt.

“Three pens, three paintbrushes,” he says thoughtfully. “Wow, you’re stretchy, Happy.”

It’s beginning to _sting_. You don’t think you’re ready to take anymore, but Bendy is already selecting another pen. You strain to spread your legs further. It's important to keep him in a good mood. It's important to listen and obey. You look obscene, with six art tools jutting between your thighs, and the sheer surreality of it makes you giggle, but it's best you listen. 

"Seven," Bendy reports, tail fwipping on the ground in his glee. "You look ridiculous."

You probably do. 

"Eight," he says next, and your face scrunches up as new, fresh pain ripples through you. Everything burns down there, and the aching feels like it's spreading, scrawling out from your wet hole and into your stomach and into your thighs. 

He's in the middle of prying in the ninth tool, when he abruptly stops, and marvels, "you're bleeding."

“I-I am?” you curl double, but don’t catch anything before Bendy raises bloody fingers to his mouth and sucks on them. Oh. So you are bleeding.

He grins around his fingers, giddy.

“A-ah, sh-should we take them out?”

Bendy’s fingers leave his mouth with a pop. “Oh, no. I’m gonna put another one in.” Then he’s scrambling in the pile of supplies to find whatever tool he wants to try.

“Y-yes, Bendy.” You don’t know anything. You don’t know your limits. That’s why he’s here. Except, for a second, you think about the one time Bendy was screwing a dead Snufkin – well, it was alive when he started, but it died pretty fast – and he was tearing right through its stomach over and over again, because he didn’t know it was dead yet, and the Joxter waved his hands and complained, _he’s dead, darling, what are you doing_ \- because Bendy didn’t always know what could kill a mumrik, didn’t know always know how much was too much.

Then Bendy's forcing another pen in and you let out a shriek. It _hurts._

Bendy’s breath catches. “Wow, that really gets you goin’, doesn’t it?”

Laughing makes them hurt worse, bouncing them in you and jabbing your walls and stinging afresh. “I-I think it’s too much,” you whimper.

His expression sours real fast. “Hey Happy, nobody asked you. You don’t know anything.”

“Right. Right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Bendy.”

And the cheerful smile comes right back. “Great! I forgive you.” He grabs another paintbrush from the pile and his eyes are dark and mischievous. “Let’s do another few, then.”


	4. Lucidity

Most of the time, you’re happy. Things are simple. The Joxter and Bendy look after you, hurt you, care for you, just as they should. Just as you _think_ they should.

Then one day, you wake up and everything is all wrong. You _remember_.

You remember with painful alacrity that you were a Snufkin, once, one that craved solitude as Snufkins do. (Solitude is something you can no longer bear). You remember that this stifling nightmare goes against everything in your nature. That you are a twisted distortion of your own self, so far from what you once were. You remember that you have been tortured into this state, that you are kept in the hands of two maniacs who would happily watch you die. More importantly, you remember that  _things should not be this way._

When you wake up like this, the Joxter knows. He gives you the foulest smile, like he himself is some ugly beast or monster, not a mumrik. He caresses your cheek. His touch burns like fire, and ignites some animalistic spirit crushed deep within you. This spirit screams at the injustice and sheer evil of what has been done to you. You wish it were only rage, because at least in rage you can find some strength. But it’s rage and helpless, consuming despair. There is nothing you can do. The spirit’s scream is twisted, maimed, furious, but it screams with no expectation of change.

“What are you crying for, love?” the Joxter susurrates to you. “Do we not provide for you? Are all your needs not met?” He knows exactly what he’s doing. By the glint in his eyes, he enjoys it immensely.

Emotion claws at your chest. _This is not what mumriks should to do other mumriks._ This is something nobody should _ever_ have to endure. It’s maddening, unadulterated evil in the disguise of civility. You want to grab reality with your fists and beat it into something that it should be, where nobody is raped, manipulated, tied, abused, or tortured.

“Don’t you hear me?” the Joxter says. “Tell me, love, have I failed as your father? Am I not enough?”

“You are, Papa,” you hate the perfidious fear that makes you spit such disgusting things while you sear with hatred.

“Is Bendy not good to you?” the Joxter continues. “Does he not feed you, and tend to you?”

“He does.” He’s a monster. A demon. Playing these sick games with mortals because he’s entirely incapable of empathy. His only amusement and pleasure derives from the destruction he wreaks. _That_ is the creature holding your life in his hands. It’s with that _thing_ you maintain this whole comedic farce of a friendship.

The Joxter purrs. He too, plays twisted games, has a twisted mind, and he has no justification at all. “See now, beloved Happy, you have much to be grateful for.”

“Yes, Papa.” You want to die. To be free from a world perverse and dark and incomprehensible.

“Come now…” the Joxter kneads your thighs, higher, higher, higher. “No need for tears, no… Perhaps I can help you, hmm?”

You want nothing from him. His fingers slip inside easily. You’re wet, somehow. You’re always wet, it seems. Snufkins simply are that way. It’s what they’re meant for.

He feels invasive and big. You’ve done this to other Snufkins (oh creator, the things _you’ve_ done. The pain _you_ inflicted – and laughed while doing, like a lunatic, like the Joxter). As if prompted by the thought, a distorted bark of a laugh burps from your throat. You hate yourself.

“Ah, there’s your smile,” he chirrs, working you looser with two fingers. “Just needed a little attention from your papa to cheer you up, hm? So wet and needy you are, poor thing. With that last Snufkin we killed, you hardly got any attention at all… no wonder you were crying.”

"Yes, papa."

He frees himself from his trousers. “Go on dear, lay back. I’ll give you what you need.”

The spirit, caged but feral, throws itself against the bars of your mind, screeching at you to rip out his eyes, rip out his throat. Do to him what he has so cruelly allowed to be done to so many others. Even that would not be enough. Even that would not _begin_ to scratch the surface of what he deserves.

But you do none of those things. You know better. You let him lay you back against the soft bedding, and you spread your legs at his prompting. Again, you hate what he’s made you into. He pushes in, thick, heavy, painful.

“There,” he sighs into your good ear. “There we go. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

The feral presence in your mind has the left the bars alone. It has curled in the corner, and it wails in despair.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, brushing your hair from your face. “It’s been days, hasn’t it? I was truly cruel, and I’m so very sorry. You need your papa inside you, don’t you?”

Tingling warmth blooms out from where he’s buried in you. You’re like a flower, you think, and that’s a good thought. That’s much better. You’ve had enough, now, see – enough of being lucid and knowing how things are, the way they truly are.

“Yes, papa,” you say. You imagine that little feral spirit in your head. You imagine taking lots and lots of blankets and stifling it. You imagine it thrashing in its final, pitiful throes, and you try to find pleasure in it. You don’t succeed, but you try. You tell the thing to never come back. You don’t think it will listen, but you're very insistent as you stifle it to death.

“I’ve got you,” the Joxter kisses your forehead chastely. “I’ve got you, dear.”

Laughter bubbles up. Your legs wrap around him. “Thank you, papa,” you breathe.

It’s better to be happy.


	5. Oral

You should have known better. That’s your first thought. But it had sounded right at the time.

See, the Joxter hadn’t been using you. He’d hunted a Snufkin, and his needs were sated then. You understood that. But then, two days later, he had a romp with Bendy in the nest, and you were left outside, uninvolved. You understood that too. And then another several days passed, where you were still not used, the hazy heat of summer keeping the Joxter quite lethargic.

So there you were, a good week without being helpful. And Bendy, who normally played so many odd and painful games with you – he seemed to spend a lot of time out of the nest. Maybe you were overthinking it, maybe not, but the fact was, you suddenly weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.

The natural conclusion was that, in absence of their attention, you ought to do what they would do. But your fingers didn’t hurt as much as the Joxter, and they weren’t as frightening as Bendy. You should have stopped there. But it wasn’t just about being used, it was about _them_ and you wanted it to be like them –

Well, you grabbed a knife. The Joxter’s knife, in fact. You slipped it from his overcoat while he was sleeping, and then you settled beside the canoe and with a _snick_ opened the blade. You spread your legs. Hesitated. Panted. Thinking, _you can’t do this_. And then the silver blade was sinking inside you.

You got it all the way to the hilt, with no abnormal pain. And that felt right. Dangerous and scary with the potential to hurt so very much. You let it sit inside you, and you felt good. Purposeful.

You held very still, important, glad. Useful, even.

“Is that a knife?” Bendy. You didn't know he was close. And that’s when you flinched in surprise. When it cut inside you. You carefully drew it out, panicking when it came out dotted with blood, but the damage was done. So you should have known better.

Now it’s too late for that.

He’s got your thighs wrenched apart, and his tongue is slithered deep inside – it feels so wet and lithe, so strange but good – until a stripe of fire sears up your insides. He found the tear. And he worries at it until terror seizes you that he’s going to rip right through you, wind his tongue up into your guts and pull your innards out your cunt. He's huffing, excited, tail lashing and coiling with feral energy. He's scrabbling like an animal to taste more and more, to dig out and spill what you need to survive.

“S-stop-“ you hoarsely choke, but you’re terrified to push him off. This is all your fault and if it kills you, you’ve only got yourself to blame – but creator above, you don’t _want_ to die, you want to live. “Bendy,” you cry, “please, please stop-“ you want to scream for the Joxter – you know he’d wake up, and maybe save you – but oh, he’s going to be so angry with you for provoking Bendy _again_.

Bendy’s tongue slides out. You gasp in relief – maybe you’re safe? Then his teeth crunch into the meat of your thigh. The noise that rips from your throat is somewhere between a laugh and a scream. Your skull cracks against the canoe hull as you jerk– the sharp movement only aids him to rip a chunk of flesh from your thigh, and next he’s got his teeth buried into the juncture of your groin.

“Happy?” a groggy voice mutters; you crane your head up to find the Joxter blinking blearily down at you.

Fear overrides the shame of your mistake, and words spill out, “p-papa, please help help, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, papa please-“ He’s _chewing_. Your gasp rattles, dry and afraid. “Papa, help me, help me- I’m sorry-“

His eyes are a chilly gold. “What did you do?” he demands, and oh, he’s mad.

Bendy’s fingers tighten over your thighs to split you further apart while his tongue dives back into you.

“I’m s-sorry. I p-provoked him-“ something very sharp grazes over your lips and you suck in a tight, fearful breath. He’s going to eat right through you. “I-I was asking for it, but p-please, I won’t do it again,” you plead through tears.

“Bendy, stop it,” the Joxter says sharply.

It does nothing. Nothing at all. He’s still lapping and biting at you like crazy.

“Joxter!” you yelp.

“You’re going to kill him,” the Joxter hits the hull of the canoe. “Bendy, stop it.”

Nothing. You cry out.

“Sorry,” the Joxter says dully, “I don’t think I can help.”

“Wh-what?”

The Joxter waves his hand dismissively. “I’ve no interest in getting between him and you, love.”

If he doesn’t help, then there isn’t anyone to help. There isn’t anyone to stop Bendy. That means you’ll die.

A stupid, ridiculous idea crosses your head; an idea half-formed and clumsy. You furl your tongue, gather your shaking breath, and whistle a tremulous note that dies as soon as it starts. No, no, you need to try again. Music. He loves music. He loves that you play it, where the Joxter won’t. So you purse your lips, try again. And again. Through your fear and your heaving breath (you’re bleeding, oh creator you’re bleeding and your thighs looked like minced meat, you’re going to die) a warbling tune rises, dances.

It’s a song you had played for him, time and time again. One you knew from your youth although you could no longer remember where you had learned it (some foggy memory about a frightening dark night, and deep notes soothing you – it doesn’t matter now). You can’t play it right anymore, with one ear deaf, but you do your best and Bendy always seems to like it.

But you’re stupid, so so stupid for thinking something mundane like that would stop him – His teeth grind into your flesh, the notes break off, but you don’t know what else to do, so you whimper, and whistle and whistle–

He stops biting down. Pauses. The notes solidify. Slowly, mouth drooling blood, he sits back, tilts his head to the side. “I like that one,” he says.

“Huh,” the Joxter says.

Bendy's face is stained with blood. As you gaze at each other, and your quaking notes dwindle to nothing, he smiles wide. “What, did ya think I wouldn’t stop? I wouldn’t kill ya, Happy.” He points to his chest, forms a heart with his bloodied fingers, and then points at you.

As slickness dribbles out of you, you can’t look away from his lecherous grin. You can see he still wants more. That he wants to eat right through you. Through flesh and bone and blood. He’s insatiable.

“Happy,” the Joxter snaps. You jerk your head away, but you can still feel Bendy’s eyes on you. The Joxter has crawled out of the canoe, and he’s holding bandages and alcohol. “You’ll bleed out,” he says stiffly.

With rubbery uncooperative muscles, you scoot away from Bendy. He watches you fumble, gaze ravenous and barely held in check.

As the Joxter tends your wounds, he grumbles, “You should have known better.”


	6. Oral... 2.0

Bendy’s sprawled on his belly, his head nuzzled between your legs. It had taken some time and much practice (most of it after you healed from the first time around), with both of you being novices, but he has it down to an art now. He starts with long, appreciative licks, ones that leave you dripping with black ink. Then he’s more focused, with purposeful licks and flicks, and sometimes he slips in real sudden - you might jump and squeak. You feel absolutely sodden by the time he latches to your lips. And when he does, he rolls his tongue in a quick, sweeping rhythm, over and over and over, fast and slick and mind numbing.

It’s this point he’s at. Your eyes are lidded, your thighs trembling, muscles jumping and jerking while your breath leaps, cuts out, leaps again. Your hands are wrapped around his horns – the idea was to knead them, to give him something to enjoy, but instead you’re gripping them tight like an anchor.

“B-Bendy,” you gasp, your hips rising to meet his mouth. “Ah, hn, Bendy, just like that, please, ah, m-more-“

His fingers tighten on your thighs; you know he loves doing it right.

“Feels so good, I love it,” you whimper for his sake, but it’s so very true, “ah, I’m so-“ There's several seconds of sharp, quick breaths, where you forget to say anything at all. Then your toes curl, your back arches. A soft, fluttering moan releases as pleasure ripples through you in waves. For a moment everything is bliss, and you grip him close. Then the feeling trickles away, leaving you feeling rubbery and slack and satisfied. Your head lolls against the side of the canoe as a deep, contented sigh flows through you.

Bendy stays between your legs, lapping up your wetness – now with much slower, longer strokes, ones that often dip into you. You moan your gratitude, pet his horns like you should have been doing earlier (very negligent of you).

“Thank you,” you sigh, your smile feeling softer than usual. It’s only then that you get the sense of being watched, and your lidded eyes glimpse a shape in the woods. You raise your head.

There _is_ someone watching you.

You blink, your vision clears.

There’s someone _familiar_ watching you, though you can’t for the life of you remember how you know him. He’s all autumn colors, with warm dark hair and eyes. Your fingers go still.

Bendy sits up. “Hey, I didn’t say to stop-“ then he notices your distracted look, follows your gaze.

You know that face. But you hardly remember who this person is.

“Hey, a new Joxter,” Bendy says.

“Snufkin,” the Joxter breathes.

“My name’s Happy,” you tell him. It’s understandable he didn’t know, because you can’t expect everyone to know right off the bat, but it’s very important he gets that corrected.

What you don’t expect is for his face to suddenly crumble. As if upset. As if he had just been delivered the worst news.

“I’m Bendy,” the demon chirps, but the Joxter doesn’t seem to be paying any attention whatsoever. He stumbles, then dives to your side. Trembling gloved hands scoop your cheeks. He’s uncomfortably close, his eyes bright and frightened.

“Hey, who is this guy?” Bendy demands.

You don’t know. He’s actually a little alarming, swooping in like this with an expression of wrenching despair. Why does he look so sad?

“Snufkin, don’t you remember me?” he says it with such devastation.

“Yes,” you say, because he seems to want you to remember – and he does seem familiar anyway, so it’s not entirely a lie. But Bendy looks your way in confusion, and you meet his look with equal bewilderment. Neither of you know quite what’s going on.

“My son,” the Joxter breathes.

Oh, oh dear. He’s crying. He’s _crying_ , now look what you did. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, feeling quite helpless. “Would you like to fuck me?” Fucking always made Joxters feel better.

The Joxter lets out a broken wail. Oh, you just made things worse, and now you’re feeling very uncomfortable. You don’t understand why that upset him so much. This is getting overwhelming – you meet Bendy’s gaze again, and his expression hardens.

“Okay, okay, get offa Happy-“ it only takes one hard shove to force the Joxter off. The demon crawls onto your lap and glares. “What’s the big idea? I just went through all the effort to cheer him up, and now you gotta go and make him _un_ happy?”

The strange Joxter sits up in the dirt, offering Bendy a wary look before returning his attention to you (you wish he wouldn't look at you so much). “Snufkin,” he entreats, “Snufkin, I’m your father, don’t you-“

“Oh, hullo,” a sleepy voice comes from the canoe – you peer up to see the Joxter’s head sticking over the edge. “Happy, you didn’t tell me you invited your father along. The resemblance is striking.”

“My father…?” Right, he had called you his son. Scraps of memory flit into your mind. Something about a soft smile, about lazy warm afternoons snuggled in a scarf, and – oh -

Oh, of course. You do know who this after all. How strange that you forgot, as he’s the one who raised you for so many years. You remember now. It was before you knew what Joxters like, when in your naïveté, you thought this man wanted to raise you without screwing or hurting you - the idea now seems downright silly, and you bark a laugh. 

The new Joxter’s eyes rove between the three of you. He looks cautious, scared even.

You don’t know if you’re allowed to call him papa, but you say, “father,” and his eyes leap to you, hopeful. You wrap your arms around Bendy to tug him against your chest, leaving your lap exposed, and you spread your legs. “You don’t have to wait anymore,” you say. “I’m ready, father.”

“I’m not a cat,” Bendy mutters.

“Yes,” the Joxter says, “why don’t you use your son? He’s quite nice inside, I promise.”

You nod and giggle. "I am, really. Warm and wet."

Yet again, your father’s face contorts in something not at all like pleasure or lust. He looks furious and hurt, of all things, and you feel immediately humiliated. How had you messed up again? His fists clench, unclench.

“Come on, friend,” the Joxter cajoles. "Haven't you been waiting a long time for this?"

Your father puts a hand on your shoulder, whispers something in your ear - except he picks the wrong ear, and you don't hear what he said at all. The expression he gives you after is something you suppose is meant to be reassuring. At any rate, in the next second, he's off into the woods and gone.

“Well, he sure didn’t want to hang around,” The Joxter mumbles, and flops back into his canoe.

"What a weirdo." Bendy squirms out your arms and settles between your legs. "So, round two?"


	7. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm marking this story as complete, but if I come up with any other ideas I'll absolutely be adding them.

The sun is drowning in the ocean. The sky is near-black overhead and salt stings your eyes and nose. The ocean waves rush and lull. 

“Moomin was right,” the Joxter says. “The ocean was well worth visiting. Isn’t that right, Happy?”

“Yes, yes.” Being drowned in the ocean is worse than being drowned in a lake. That is what you learned today. It was a good day.

The Joxter’s crackling fire casts weird humanoid shadows on the beach. The three of you are gathered on the sand, admiring the dying embers of twilight while Bendy sticks his hands in the fire.

The Joxter clears his throat. “Happy, why don’t you dance for us?”

“H-huh?”

The Joxter brushes his thick tongue over his lips, and makes a thoughtful noise. “When I was much younger, I once glimpsed a gathering of beautiful water sprites, dancing under the moonlight. The waves remind me of them, and I think I’d very much like to see another beautiful dance like it.”

Dance. You can do that for them. Such a thing might have made you nervous before, but you’re not nervous about much of anything anymore. They helped you with that. 

You don’t know what you’re doing, of course, but you almost never know what you're doing, so there’s no harm in that. You wave your arms, and twirl, and try to sway like the ocean waves. You picture yourself as a wild water sprite, something that Joxter would find appealing. It’s hard to do that because you yourself have never met a water sprite and you have no idea how they might dance, but you do your best. 

Bendy starts laughing. That’s okay. They laugh at you a lot, and you always deserve it. 

Then he hops up from the campfire, shakes his hands until the melted ink splatters off and his gloves are pristine white again. “Real cute try, Happy. How ‘bout ya dance with me?” He bows low and holds out one hand. 

You take it. He lets out a yip and pulls you into a wild cavorting where he’s almost always darting underfoot and then on one side and then the next, grabbing and releasing your paws and towing you into twirls and spins that are anything but graceful. 

The ‘dance’ is enthusiastic but brief, and it ends with you eating sand. That’s usually how dances with him end.

“You’re not supposed to fall over,” Bendy complains.

“S-sorry,” you say, and reach for the proffered paw – but it’s black gloved, and smaller. The Joxter pulls you up with a knowing smile. 

“Come here, love. I’ll show you how to do it nicely.”

“Hey,” Bendy whines, “I know how to dance nicely, too, I just think it’s boring.” 

“I’m sure you’re an elegant dancer, darling, but there’s no need to bore yourself. I’ll help Happy.”

You’re so lucky you have them to help. 

The Joxter cups your hip firmly, and grasps your shoulder. Then you and your papa are very very close. Sharing breath together. His eyes spark with reflections of the campfire. He starts moving, and you stumble.

“You’re supposed to step when he does, not two seconds after,” Bendy snorts.

Oh, that made sense, right. You look down, try to follow his feet, but it’s still a faltering thing where you’re half a step behind him, and tripping over your own toes. 

“Head up,” the Joxter says. You meet his gaze again, smile nervously. “Slowly,” he instructs, “left foot step back.” He puts gentle pressure on your hip, and this time you step together.

You giggle, and he tilts his head up to place a soft kiss on your lips. “Very good, dear. This way now.” He guides you to the side, something he does in one smooth step, and something you do in several clumsy ones. You really are atrocious at this. But he’s very patient with you. 

He squeezes your hip. He smells a little sour, as he always does, but you find yourself leaning in anyway. There’s something beautiful and magical about dancing in the light of the campfire, the ocean waves ebbing and flowing. You feel very pretty, despite how clumsy you are, and pretty is good. He looks at you like he’d love to either kiss you or devour you. 

“You know,” he says, voice rough, “I had my doubts, at first, but you truly are a son I can be proud of. Not at all like other Snufkins.”

Heat scrawls over your cheeks, a giggle bubbles from your throat. “I love you too, papa.” And he cradles you closer, pulls you into a deep and hungry sort of kiss. You feel warm, pretty, like there’s nowhere else you'd rather be.


	8. Intimacy

Bendy likes killing. It’s something deep in his nature, something integral to what he is. It’s impossible to separate him from the need to kill: you know that, and that’s why you don’t _really_ mind that he gives so many other Snufkins attention.

Well, you _do_ mind, to tell the truth. You’re jealous of every one of them. How can you not be? He always looks so _ecstatic_ to rip them apart. It invigorates him like nothing else. How excited he gets about puncturing through flesh with his claws, and twisting limbs from their sockets, and pulling wriggly organs from dying Snufkins. More than once you've even seen him, in his smaller form, crack apart ribs and burrow inside, like a parasite making a warm nest of bone, blood and mashed organs. It makes him so happy.

You’re painfully envious, and you wish you could be every one of those Snufkins that he rips apart. You want to make him that happy. You want to be ripped apart.

It’s what he needs, but it’s something you can’t deliver without dying. When you start to feel too upset that he won’t kill you nicely like the others, you comfort yourself remembering that you aren’t like the others. Bendy loves you enough to keep you around, and he’s careful enough to not kill you, because he wants to enjoy you again and again.

That makes you special. But still you ache for the intimacy of dying beneath him.

It’s a brisk autumn morning, the leaves blazing in beautiful reds and oranges and yellows, when you happen upon an idea of how to mimic that sort of feeling without truly dying.

As it happens, you had gone hunting with Bendy. The two of you had had lots of fun playing with the little Snufkin you found, even though the Snufkin didn't seem to enjoy the games. Such a whiny Snufkin he had been, screaming and trying to escape and breaking rules left and right. Even if he was bad at games, you're glad to have played with him, because it made Bendy happy. 

Now all that is done. The Snufkin’s mangled body is magnificently draped over a bed of brown leaves, his sightless eyes staring up into the sharp crystal blue sky.

Bendy’s teeth are digging into the Snufkin’s torso, which has been ruptured like an overheated food tin, his insides spilling out. There’s a slick whuffling and snorting as Bendy swallows organs and sinew; sometimes there's the cracking of bone, or thick moist noises like raw eggs being churned up. Bendy’s impatience and eagerness to feed makes the Snufkin’s limp body twitch like a doll, and the leaves he lays upon rustle or crunch. It’s a bizarre, morbid symphony.

You’re watching, captivated as always, and dreadfully jealous, when the idea comes to you. The idea is not about dying, not quite, but you want to feel like this Snufkin. You want to make Bendy happy like this Snufkin does.

You stagger forward on shaking legs – how silly and impractical, why are they shaking? Perhaps in reverence – until you’re right there, close enough to touch, and then you do touch him, caressing trembling fingers along the side of his head. Cold black ink gums up between your fingers.

“Bendy,” you say, and it comes out wavering and giggly. You must be very nervous. He keeps eating – he does so love to do that, despite having no need to. Perhaps he thinks you merely wanted to admire.

“Please,” you urge, and your hand travels closer to his mouth, lightly trying to nudge him away from the Snufkin. Still he ignores you. That’s painful, a sting deep in your chest.

You kneel down beside the Snufkin. The smell of its cadaver is bitterly strong. Your arms wriggle between this sack of dead flesh and Bendy’s teeth. You can feel how warm his breath is, sour and hot from the corpse he’s been eating.

Your arms and hands must feel so small and so frail. He could bite through them with no trouble, and then he’d have two bodies to enjoy. The thought makes you shiver, but then you’re even more breathless and awed when your feeble attempts to push him away work. Bendy lifts his head, licking his lips. 

He has no way to see you, not that you can tell, but you know he’s regarding you with confusion. You’ve never tried to interrupt before, but he's willing to wait to see what you want. You feel loved, treasured.

“I’ll make it good, I promise,” you whisper to him. “I want to make you feel good.”

A low purr is his response. It makes you giddy and nervous all at once. You hope that he’ll like this.

You turn your attention to the dead Snufkin. Bendy’s already eaten away much of the Snufkin’s meaty insides. You aren’t small enough to fit inside the way he can,  but most of the ribs are gone already, and the ones left are broken and twisted. It’s effortless to shift them out of your way, and they feel slick and sticky with bits of bloody meat stuck to them.

You’re going to get blood all over your coat. That’s all right. They’ll get you a new one. For good measure, you take the shredded threadbare scarf that decorates the dead Snufkin’s throat, and you wrap it around your own neck. How wonderful that makes you feel, like you’re this very Snufkin.

As you gaze down, you see that his spine shows through white in some places, wherever Bendy bit through it. You settle right in like it’s a bed – a warm, wet sort of bed – and you line your spine up directly with his.

What a perfect blue the sky is this morning. It’s a perfect contrast to Bendy’s dark horns.

And him, oh him. He’s hovering over you, head tilted slightly to the side. His teeth are parted and dripping blood. The sight twists so pleasantly in your stomach, and it occurs to you, not for the first time, that he could so effortlessly kill you. He’s very, very unsafe to be around.

You grab mutilated ribs attached only by bits of sinew and flesh, and you neatly array them over your own chest. Then you tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and nuzzle your cheek against the blood-splattered rapidly cooling one of the dead Snufkin. Like this, you feel electric. You feel like the Snufkin, moments before his death, or what you suppose one should feel moments before being killed by Bendy – excited, thrilled, terrified.

You laugh, and it might be playful or might be terror, but your legs spread invitingly, and you keep giggling away. You’re very, very wet, and you never wear trousers, because it's good to always be available.

He understands. He’s so good to you, and he understands rightaway. A dripping black tongue slithers from behind his teeth and drags over your cheek before teasingly lathering over your closed eyes.

He shifts above you, and then something cold and wet is worming into your cunt. Every inch is thicker than the last. As many times as you’ve experienced this, you never, never get used to it. It burns afresh, stretches you to the point you’re convinced you’re tearing. The cold radiates up inside your belly and tickles at the bottom of your lungs, although you know he can’t possibly be that far inside you.

Your breath hitches. It’s no longer just his tongue over your eyes, but another coil of ink, keeping them shut. It’s what he wants. That’s all that matters.

Your body is still trying to laugh, but your chest has clenched tight and you’re having difficulty breathing at all, so instead you simply spasm dumbly like a weak, dying fish. Your hips ache, and the pressure inside you has progressed to a searing pain, to where you don’t know if it’s hot or cold, it just hurts.

The dead Snufkin’s body cradles around you, and it’s abruptly claustrophobic and terrifying; something you think you will have nightmares about, if this itself is not already a nightmare.

Then there’s a hideous organic crunching inches from your ear. Consumed by delusion, you’re convinced Bendy’s bitten through your own skull. Then you realize it was the other Snufkin, and you’d laugh about it, except instead you just make a dry rattling attempt at inhaling. You’re so terrible at breathing.

But you’re awash with euphoria, you're bathing in the terror and bliss of the moment. More bones splinter and snap. Chunks of meat splatter onto your chest. He saws in and out of you, until you're certain he's tearing you into two, until you're certain the blood and viscera cooling over your body is your own.

Nothing could be more perfect.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Happy Thoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715449) by [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py)




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